Vertical Burn - Earl Emerson [5]
From time to time pockets of filthy brown smoke from the roof dipped down into their canyon. An orange glow reflected off smoke in the sky, though it was hard for Finney to tell whether the glow came from behind or in front. Wherever it was, the fire was growing larger.
“This is where the goddamned band is,” said Cordifis, looking at the smaller building across from them. “Nobody’s going to let a bunch of punk-ass kids mess around with all that furniture back there. Hell, they’d be banging their girlfriends on the sofas. They’re in here.”
He was right, Finney thought. There were three doors; two of them looked impenetrable. Finney took his axe out of its scabbard and approached the third, knocking off the paint-splattered two-by-fours nailed across the edges. He ended up demolishing the entire door when he found it had been screwed to the frame.
Devoid of smoke, the space appeared to be an abandoned machine room with steel counters built into the walls, a dilapidated drill press on its side on the floor. Maybe the fire hadn’t touched this side. It was possible the band members were unaware even that the building was on fire.
The room had two interior doors, both closed and locked, one of which looked as if it led farther into the building. Finney used his axe again.
The door opened onto a long passageway, a small ghost of smoke hovering near the ceiling at the far end. They worked their way down a row of doors, searching the rooms one by one. The rooms to the left were clear, the rooms to the right increasingly smoky. It was disconcerting to be this deep into a building without a hose line, even worse to realize the smoke was compartmentalized in a manner they didn’t often see. Finney could tell it bothered Cordifis, too.
When Cordifis opened an unlocked door near the far end of the corridor, torrents of smoke poured out over their heads, the first really hot smoke they’d encountered. Visibility in the room was near zero and the smoke swirled in angry circles. Finney stepped inside and stumbled into a set of drums.
A pair of cymbals crashed to the floor. “You go right,” Cordifis said from behind. “I’ll go left.”
“I don’t like this,” Finney said.
“Me neither, but we got to do it.”
There were other ways to search a room, but this would do. Split up. Right. Left.
Finney could see maybe twelve to eighteen inches in front of his light, and expecting to touch a body at any moment, he kicked some bedding on the floor—and then, as he advanced, a sleeping bag, a pile of clothing, a guitar case, some loose beer bottles. It was slow going, because even though they’d left the door open, the smoke wasn’t clearing.
Finney found a low sofa, a table, a lamp. He couldn’t tell until he had his facepiece up against it that the lamp was on, the bulb staring at him like an eyeball. The walls were made of rough brick, and pieces of mortar fell out when he brushed them with his gloves.
“Hey, take a look here,” Cordifis said. “Down here at the end.”
Finney quickly located Cordifis, who was studying the wall with his battle lantern. Finney took off a glove and held his bare palm close to the hot bricks.
“You know what I think?” Cordifis said.
“God, that’s like a stove.” Finney pulled his glove back on and heard a loud crunching sound. He began moving. “Let’s get out of here.”
As he turned, Finney heard a crack that sounded like a gunshot. He managed two running steps before something knocked his legs out from under him. It was as if he’d been tackled from behind on a football field.
The urgency of the situation became instantly clear to him. He sprawled on his stomach and scrambled forward while debris continued to rain down on him. A particularly heavy projectile slammed into his helmet and knocked him flat. Before he could start